


You Got to Know When to Hold 'Em, Know When to Fold 'Em

by xbedhead



Category: Justified
Genre: Gen, Glynco, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:47:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xbedhead/pseuds/xbedhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was my prompt: <i>Art & Raylan, gambling</i> and the story is below. Unbeta'd. Title inspired by Kenny Rogers' <i>The Gambler</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	You Got to Know When to Hold 'Em, Know When to Fold 'Em

~*~

“If I were a gamblin’ man - _which I’m not_ ,” Art began as he closed the office door behind him. “I’d be willin’ to put money down on you bein’ in hot water at home.”

“S’at so?”

Art shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over his rolling suitcase. “Been wearing the same coat and tie all week, in early ev’ry mornin’, this _couch_ has a permanent Raylan-shaped dip in it and, if I’m not mistaken, looks like you’re tryin’ for the Grizzly Adams look, but the hair follicles on your face won’t quite cooperate.”

Raylan snorted a little as he closed one manila folder and picked up another, doing his best to seem preoccupied. “Follicles. Nice.”

Art regarded him carefully, then decided to push. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with you wantin’ to go back out into the field, would it?”

Raylan stopped, mid-toss, folder in hand. “What would make you ask that?”

“I heard you’d talked to Rogers, asked what positions are open.” He lowered himself onto the couch with a groan and relaxed back into the cushions, arms folded across his chest. “When were you plannin’ on tellin’ me?”

“Never. I knew the gossip mill would take care of it,” Raylan replied quickly, with a smile that faltered after a moment. “I don’t know. It’s still up in the air – she’s none too happy about it.”

Art huffed a little, eyebrows arched in surprise. “Well, I’d say so. Last time you were in the field, you were held hostage by a murdering fugitive for eighteen hours.” 

“That…” he began uncomfortably, “was a misunderstanding. Look, Art,” he sighed, “when I signed on for this, everyone knew it was a temporary thing.”

Art held a hand up, using his right index finger to emphasize his point. “When you signed on for this, you _assumed_ everyone would see it your way – which was that this was a temporary thing.”

Raylan looked away busied himself by stacking folders and putting away ballpoints and paperclips. “Now you’re just mincin’ words,” he mumbled.

Art watched him for a minute longer and decided to drop it – they had plenty of time between the flight to Charleston and the week in the dormitory at the training center. “Hope you got somethin’ more in the way of luggage,” Art said after taking in the seriously deflated duffel bag on the floor by the waste bin.

“May have to stop at Wal-Mart when we touch down,” Raylan explained with a wince. “What time’s the flight, again?”

Art checked his watch and pushed himself up with another grunt. “Ten-fifteen. We better get goin’.”

“Wouldn’t wanna miss it,” Raylan groused as he stood and grabbed his suit coat.

“Now, Raylan,” Art began patiently, “You wouldn’t be suggesting you are… _less than enthusiastic_ about this training exercise, would you?”

“Oh, no, Art,” Raylan fired back. “I can’t wait to spend the next week teachin’ washed-out cops how to teach _other_ washed out cops how to correctly fire their weapon fifteen years too late.”

Raylan shouldered his duffel bag and led the way into the hall, holding the door open for Art to wheel his suitcase out. They walked down the empty hallway in silence, shoes squeaking against the freshly waxed tiles. They signed out at the front door and picked up the keys to their government-issued sedan.

They were crossing the parking lot when Raylan said suddenly, “Let’s cash the tickets in and drive back along the coast, catch some fish or somethin’. Might as well make a trip of it.”

Art looked at him sidelong and arched his eyebrows once more. “What’s Winona got to say about that?”

Raylan’s face twisted up as they stopped in front of the black Crown Vic. “I don’t have to ask for per _miss_ ion.”

Art stared at him for a moment, smiled a knowing smile and shook his head. “All right. If you say so.”

Raylan keyed open the trunk and tossed his bag inside. “What the hell’s that s’pposed to mean?”

“If you gotta ask, you got a lot more problems than I can fix – that’s for sure.” Art loaded his suitcase into the trunk and closed the lid, taking the keys from lock. “How long you been married?”

“Five years, thereabouts. Why?”

He made his way around the car and looked over the top at Raylan. “Amazed you made it this long,” he commented with a derisive snort as he pulled his Bulldogs hat from his jacket pocket.

“But, Art, I – ”

Art cut him off with a wave of his hand and tugged on his cap as he slipped into the driver’s seat. “Stick with me, son – you got a lot to learn.”


End file.
